


Route 87

by BeaRyan, ElDiablito_SF



Category: Revolution (TV)
Genre: Blow Jobs, Companionable Snark, Explicit Sexual Content, Hand Jobs, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-06
Updated: 2014-04-06
Packaged: 2018-01-18 08:06:03
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,850
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1420816
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BeaRyan/pseuds/BeaRyan, https://archiveofourown.org/users/ElDiablito_SF/pseuds/ElDiablito_SF
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Miles and Bass are traveling north when an unexpected snowstorm forces them to seek shelter.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Route 87

**Author's Note:**

  * For [hithelleth](https://archiveofourown.org/users/hithelleth/gifts).



"What are you hoping to get out of this fool's errand anyway?" Miles asked. "Even if Jeremy is still alive, which he’s probably not, you ordered his execution. Do you think he's just going to welcome you with open arms?" 

"Yes, dick, I think he will. Unlike you, Jeremy never drew a gun on me. He was loyal. I want to reward loyalty." Bass kicked a rock off the side of the road and took a swig from his canteen, swirling it as if it were something stronger and cursing that it wasn't. Miles had suggested they save the whiskey for the nights, it got cold in October this far north, but he'd forgotten Miles' incredible ability to complain when he'd agreed to it. 

"Reward loyalty. Right. You heard a rumor that someone named Baker has declared his own kingdom just north of your old pissant empire and all you want to do is 'reward loyalty.'"

"Maybe I want to fuck him till he can't form words. I thought you didn't care what I did now that you've got Rachel and your moral superiority to keep you warm." 

They kept moving steadily north, following US 87 through upstate New York towards Montreal. 

An hour later Miles said, "We never should have blown up Niagara Falls." Bass didn't answer. He didn't have to. Miles knew he agreed. If Jeremy had been able to take the short route out of the Monroe Republic, across the Great Lakes and towards Toronto, they'd already have seen him, or not if he wasn't still alive, but Jeremy knew everything. Knew which bridges were gone, knew their security measures, knew the bounty for bodies shot on the lakes. He also knew they didn't bother to defend themselves from the French Canadians. The far northeast had been nearly abandoned when they'd claimed it as theirs. They'd colored it in on a map they'd sent to Texas and Georgia and immediately collected taxes from the handful of farmers they found. The soldiers on the expedition had eaten more than they'd collected, and Miles and Bass had given up active ruling of the area. Instead they’d used it as a buffer zone and made the area just across the Hudson River into their own personal penal colony, tossing into Canada the people they needed out of the way but didn't care to kill. Pregnant conscripts, unlicensed drug dealers, and pacifists were all sent north. It was the knowledge that the land was stocked with loose women and hippies that gave them hope that Jeremy really had taken over the place. 

After another hour of steady plodding, Bass’ feet began to ache. Miles' voice broke the silence and his last shred of patience. 

"Looks like it'll snow," Miles said.

"Who are you now, Wilford Brimley?" 

Miles questioned, "The oatmeal guy?"

"No, the fat, black weatherman who used to wish people a happy hundredth birthday. He's sure as hell out of a job now." 

"I think you're mixing up a couple of different people there, Bass." 

"Who asked you?" Bass pulled open the door of car, abandoned and rusted in the middle of the road, and dropped into the driver's seat. He unlaced his boots, stretched his toes, and watched as the first flakes fell. 

“Get up, princess,” Miles said. “We need to get down the road and find shelter before this storm really hits.” 

“It’s October, Miles. You worry like an old woman.” 

“It’s upstate New York, Bass. Damn near Canada. We didn’t send people there to sunbathe. We need to keep moving and find shelter.” 

“The car is shelter. The upholstery is still comfortable. Pull open a door and pull up a seat.” 

“Where do you plan to put the fire?” Miles asked. 

The look Bass gave him said he could think of a lot of places to put the fire, but Miles chose to ignore it and start walking. Bass pulled on his boots, tied the laces, and heaved himself out of the seat with a demonstrative grunt. 

Two miles and half an hour later, the snow was up to their ankles. Their visibility was limited, but both men anxiously scanned for threats. They may not have seen anyone for the last fifteen miles, but old habits died hard. They were targets, exposed in the middle of the road, visible in dark gear against a background now coated in white and unable to hear over the gusts of the wind. 

"Take the exit?" Bass asked with a nod of his head towards the gas station sign.

"Glass will be busted out," Miles said. 

"There will be a cash office. Trucker stalls if we're lucky."

"Unemployed truckers turned cannibals if we're not." 

Bass grinned at him. "You're packing, right?" 

"Shut up and bear right." 

They climbed the paved hill and turned right, foregoing the icy road to shortcut across the overgrown berm. Miles stepped into the lot and failed to calculate for the drop as the grass turned to pavement, first teetering then landing on his hands and knees on the snow covered asphalt. 

"You look good like that," Bass said. 

"Shut up." 

"Got your ass kicked by two tons of fluffy, white bullshit." It was an old joke, leftover from a ski trip gone wrong when they were still in high school. Emma had not been impressed when their attempts to catch air had resulted in broken rental equipment and a trip to the emergency room. 

"I'm going to freeze off a hand and you're going to smile your way through it. How the hell you ever led a country is both obvious and a mystery." 

"I did it because you didn't want to." Bass' stare made Miles flinch inwardly. "You wanted someone to do it, but you didn't want to be responsible for it, so I took charge and made it happen." 

Miles looked away. As much as he hated to admit it, it was true. Bass was always willing to claim whatever he wanted. Brand it. Miles would lead the charge into war, swearing that the moment had demanded it, but the aftereffects (even now he loathed to call them consequences) were someone else's problem. He ravaged mercilessly, but someone else could clean out the ashes and settle the new land. 

The glass in the door of the gas station was gone, but everything else was intact. The front bank of windows allowed in light but kept out the wind. A quick scan of the interior showed an undisturbed layer of dust on the ground, now covered near the entrance by blown snow, but if anyone was using this as a home they weren't using the front door. They moved cautiously towards the back, checking each row as they went, silent and alert to signs of danger. 

"Funyuns!" Bass exclaimed. 

"Fuck you and your Funyuns,” Miles hissed. 

"You don't like them because fun is in the name. If they were called mopey pains in the ass, you'd be all over them." 

Miles checked a response before he spoke it, but Bass caught the line anyway. Ass jokes had been part of their repertoire for decades. The meaning changed over the years, but they were still easy swats in their verbal sparring matches.

“Just keep moving,” Miles said. “If the place is empty we’ve got plenty of time to raid what’s left of the snacks. Tasty fifteen year old crap no one else wanted to eat. If someone is here, maybe we should find them before they find us.” 

They stalked forward, checking each aisle as they went, but each man noted that even the wildlife hadn’t disturbed the building in years. The warped linoleum and nearly bare shelves didn’t provide much in the way of a cover. The walls kept out the weather, but that was the extent of the comfort provided by the building. 

All the way in the rear, a door that had rusted in its hinges led to a small room, that had presumably at some point been used as a sort of a combination between the office and the break area. It was surely the opposite of cozy, yet to call it spartan would have been an insult to Sparta. Bass wrinkled his nose at the vestiges of the mundane. Surely, death by starvation would have been preferable to dying slowly, cramped in that small space, smothered by the absence of light and fresh air. When faced with such options, nine out of ten times he’d choose a soldier’s death to this - whatever this was.

“Were you expecting the Hilton?”

“Oh, hey there, Grumpy - I’d almost forgotten you were behind me, were it not for that witty repartee.”

“Fuck off and find us something to sleep on.” Miles turned back towards where the cash register once stood. “I’ll make a goddamn light.” He was going to have to make a torch. It wasn’t as if he was going to start a bonfire in the middle of what used to be a gas station. He might have lost some of his old sheen, but he was never exactly suicidal.

The office used to have a couch. Bass had surmised that much by the fact that the floor was scattered in cushions. One could only presume the actual frame had been used for firewood, or, if the locals were crafty, to make weapons. The cushions, to use that term generously, weren’t really something Bass would have luxuriated on now-a-days, but they were better than linoleum, which, in turn, had been preferable to the freshly fallen snow. 

Everything was relative. Just as being shot by Jeremy now seemed better than the relative supposition that he had been responsible for shooting Jeremy. He didn’t know what had hurt more: finding out that he had (supposedly) killed his last friend or the look of utter lack of surprise on Miles’ face when Bass had finally told him. Well, fuck Miles and the stolen wagon he likely rolled in on. Fuck the wagon especially - he would have given his kingdom for a wagon right about now. One could sleep in a wagon. One could wagon the aforementioned wagon all the way to Canada. It would be a hell of a lot faster and easier than walking with Miles Matheson.

Bass shuffled the cushions closer together and pulled his one spare blanket out of his pack, wondering for a while whether it would serve better under or over them.

“How’s it going in here, Bass?”

“His majesty’s sleeping quarters are ready. I’m afraid the King will have to forego the bath tonight.”

Miles lifted his makeshift torch aloft and examined the cramped space. “Unless,” he said as he eyed the flame, “we melt some snow down and make a bath of that.”

“You hedonist.”

The smiles they exchanged had been truce enough to sleep in close quarters. Miles placed the stub end of his torch in a metal bucket lifted off the floor by a wire rack, he assumed exactly as the previous owner of this room had done, and ran his hand through his hair.

“Should we sleep in shifts?” he asked Bass, who was trying to make himself comfortable on what was essentially the padded floor.

“We’re in the middle of goddamn buttfuck North America, what’s left of it, and you’re worried about - what exactly? Snow zombies? Or is this just your newly acquired prudery speaking?”

“Fuck off, Bass! I’m not a prude.”

Bass gave Miles his best shit-eating grin. “Touched a nerve much?”

“A man can have reasons for not wanting to be your bunkmate that have nothing to do with…” he trailed off, much to Bass’ satisfaction. 

“You’ve probably forgotten what it feels like. Fucking. To have someone touch you like they actually _want_ a piece of you. I bet Rachel makes you do it through a sheet, out of respect for her dearly departed.”

Miles tried to punch Bass, but that entailed bending over him, which, of course, was martial arts for idiots - you don’t bend over while trying to punch an asshole who had it coming. You just don’t. Unless you want said asshole to use your momentum against you, to land you on your stupid ass, with your opponent (Bass, to be exact) sitting pretty much on top of your chest. Miles let out a pained grunt and dug his fingers into Bass’ thighs.

“Get the fuck off me.”

“You sure?” Even in the insufficient light provided by the torch, he could see the glimmer of playfulness in Bass’ eyes, the familiar curve of his smile. He felt the heat coming off Bass’ skin; it seared through his layers of clothing. “Cuz… I remember what it feels like, Miles. And, anyways, I’m sure if you ask Rachel’s esteemed Doctor Father he’d tell you that your ‘thing’,” Bass paused for emphasis and to make ludicrous air quotes, “will fall off from misuse.”

“Oh, come on! He’s not that shitty of a doctor!”

Bass, apparently, had no intention of relocating off Miles’ chest. His hand came down quickly, making Miles flinch in anticipation of a slap, but instead, he ran his fingers through Miles’ hair, moving the stray strands out of his face.

“We were good once,” Bass’ voice was a soft, hoarse whisper in the darkness, and it made Miles swallow a lump that had suddenly formed in his throat. If by ‘once’ Bass meant for roughly thirty years, yeah, they were good once.

“Bass…” Miles wasn’t sure what he wanted to say, only he had to say something. Otherwise… _otherwise_.

“It’s just us here, Miles. You don’t have to pretend for anyone else’s benefit.” He shifted his hips a bit, moving down, but still keeping Miles pinned with his body. Miles watched, with a combination of horror and arousal, as Bass stretched on top of him, like some kind of a siamese cat. “It’s just me,” Bass repeated and his thigh dragged across Miles’ crotch, until it came to settle in between his slightly spread legs and pushed upwards, shooting a jolt of pleasure-pain against Miles’ balls. Bass had always known how to turn him on without even removing an article of clothing.

“Bass, please…” And there it was again. Please - what? Please stop? Please more? Miles shut his eyes and tried to gather the strength to push the other man off him. Instead, he found his hands trailing up Bass’ sides.

“Come on, Miles. Captain Crankypants doesn’t need to report for duty tonight.” Their lips were maybe an inch away and Miles caught himself staring at the ligaments of Bass’ neck - it wasn’t as if anything else was showing - but they always were so well defined, so very accessible for licking and biting. That old urge to grab and mark was rearing its ugly head again. He never did figure out which one of them had the bigger branding kink. Perhaps it had always been them both.

“This means nothing,” Miles muttered, pulling Bass in, crushing their lips together, bucking up into that heat, into the press of the thigh between his legs, feeling his erection stir and activate in search of its counterpart.

“Nothing, everything,” Bass whispered between ravening kisses, “You don’t even know what it means.” He pressed further down and then Miles smiled into the kiss because he could feel the twin hardness to his own, stabbing him right in the lower abs.

Miles dug his fingers in deeper, trying to push right through the jacket and everything else that stood between his hands and Bass’ skin. He wanted to leave bruises there. Bass was and always had been _his_. Or was it the other way around? He growled in frustration and bit his oldest friend’s tumescent lower lip, chewing it on it as if it was a strawberry. No, a lychee. Sweet, fleshy, exotic fruit. And one that he was likely to never taste again. But he could still have Bass now.

“Fuck, Miles…”

It was good to see that neither one of them was at the peak of eloquence.

Bass yanked at the scarf around Miles’ neck, unfurling it, the cold air in the room hitting the small expanse of exposed skin like a sudden punch. Bass’ beard felt scratchy against Miles’ neck. He smelled like musk, leather, and gun powder. He smelled of horses and metal and blood. He tasted of victory and oblivion.

“Ever use snow as lube?” Bass whispered, his laughter hot against Miles’ earlobe.

“You’re insane.”

“You keep saying…”

Bass’ fingers were deftly undoing Miles’ fly and it felt for a moment as if both their bodies were just strings stretched too tightly, about to burst, and then Miles felt surprisingly warm fingers wrap around his growing boner, and he thanked God or Whatever that Bass was always so fond of gloves. The touch was light, almost unbearably so, making Miles buck up into the teasing laxity of the hand.

“What do you want, baby?”

Miles whined and bucked again. “Bass… come _on_!”

“You gotta ask for it nicely, sweetheart.”

Miles thought he could probably cry. This was the thing that Bass did. Made him laugh, made him drop his guard, feel happy, feel like he was fucking _home_. And then there was the actual sex, which was like a battlefield and absolution rolled up in one.

“What are you gonna do if I ask nicely?” his own voice sounded foreign to him. How easy it was to fall back into the same patterns, to play the same games. Miles craned his neck up to bite that swollen, enticing lower lip again, and again to latch his teeth onto the stark ligaments of Bass’ neck.

“I’ll give it to you, the way you like it, baby. Nice and slow, then hard and fast. Make you ride it out until you can’t take it anymore.” His hand mimicked his words. Eventually it settled into a steady rhythm, sliding along the shaft of Miles’ cock, thumb pressing into a throbbing vein at the base of the head.

“Bass, please… no more teasing.”

“No more teasing, baby.” But Bass was more interested in apparently kissing Miles to death than in rubbing him off to orgasm. His tongue thrust into Miles’ mouth, taking his breath away as he tried to abortively buck into the hand, craving more pressure, more heat.

Miles knew this game, though. Bass stroked until Miles could feel himself trembling, could feel his balls pull up, about to unleash, and then Bass would move his hand, and press down at the base of Miles’ cock, an apocalyptic cockring made of skin and bones, and Miles would whine and thrash and beg for more.

“Please, Bass…”

“Relax, baby. This means nothing, remember?”

“Fuck!”

Miles practically jumped out of his skin: he felt the slide of Bass’ own cock, thick and velvety and radioactively hot against his own. 

“It’s really too bad about the lube, Miles. I wanna take you apart.”

“Later,” Miles dug his nails into the flesh of Bass’ ass, or as much of it as he could realistically reach since the infuriatingly smug bastard hadn’t actually removed his pants, merely unzipped them.

“Later, Miles?”

“Yeah, later. There will be time for that later. Just… please, Bass.”

Bass slid against Miles, torturously slowly. He couldn’t keep himself from smiling, the sight of Miles debauched and disheveled and begging to get off was always too sweet to look away from.

“You should see what you look like, Miles. All hot and bothered for me like that. Like you think you’re just gonna fall apart if I don’t let you come.”

His hand had wrapped about both their cocks, stroking slowly, building the rhythm steadily. Miles trembled. Bass used their precum, slick and intermingled, turning his wrist on the upstroke in such a way that Miles could practically imagine it was his own hand. _Damn_ the man for knowing him so intimately. 

“Say it, Miles.”

“Oh God, Bass… no… come on. This is… this is…”

“What? Right? Amazing?”

“Yes!” All that and more. So much more. But also: dangerous. This backsliding - it set you on a path you weren’t ever sure you could get off of. _Get off._ “Oh fuck, Bass, please!”

“Tell me what I want to hear, baby.”

“I’m yours,” Miles whispered, shutting his eyes against the words. They came too easily. Unlike his own cock at that very moment.

“Look at me when you say that.”

Bass’ eyes smoldered in the dimly lit room. His thumb toyed with Miles’ slit as he waited, barely out of breath himself, the tantric bastard. Miles had often wanted to say ‘Yes’ to those eyes, to throw in the towel on the world, and just say ‘Yes.’

“I’m yours, Bass.”

“I know, baby.”

And suddenly, the weight had been shifted, but before he could protest, he realized where Bass had gone when his throbbing, leaking cock had been enveloped by the wet heat of his best friend’s mouth. Bass lifted his eyes, still smiling beneath the canopy of his blond eyelashes, and locked them with Miles as he took him all the way down his throat. And wasn’t that the most beautiful thing Miles had ever seen? He came like he hadn’t come in years, head falling back against the shoddy cushions, heart beating so fast he thought he might very well not survive this encounter at all.

When he finally dared to open his eyes again, Bass had been kneeling over him, thighs straddled on either side of Miles’ hips, hand slowly stroking himself while his eyes beamed of equals parts complacency and curiosity. He was gorgeous, and Miles was profoundly fucked.

“You promised me a later,” Bass said with a wink and came with a sharp gasp all over Miles’ own softening cock and balls before Miles had a chance to question whether that was a thing he had objected to.

“So I did,” Miles mused in wonder, watching Bass tuck himself back in and then pull Miles own pants back up over his hips.

“Gotta make sure Jeremy doesn’t try anything with you once we find him,” Bass explained, hand rubbing possessively over the bulge, picturing his semen drying there, marking Miles as his, even if just the two of them knew about it.

“I always thought he was more into you than into me,” Miles replied sleepily.

“There’s no accounting for taste, Miles.”

“Ain’t that the truth.” Miles’ eyes were definitely closing.

“So… uh? You still wanna do this in shifts?” 

“C’mere, idiot,” Miles reached out and pulled the other man on top of himself again. It was selfish - Bass made an excellent, snuggly blanket - but surely it was the least he could do for ruining Miles’ life constantly. “You’re beautiful,” he whispered into the blond curls tickling his nose. Yeah. Definitely ruining Miles’ life.

And what do you even say to that, Bass wondered, rubbing his nose along the stubble covering Miles’ jaw and settling in for the night. He hoped they wouldn’t get snowed in overnight. Then again, there were worse places (and likely worse people) to get stuck in.

**Author's Note:**

> Congratulations to Hithelleth, the Pain is Gain Giveaway winner. She accurately predicted that Jason Neville would become poor, dead Jason Neville after Charlie stabbed him and then improvised by stealing his gun. Here's your victory porn, darling. 
> 
> If you want to tell her how FABULOUS this prize is, by all means do. Other comments are welcome too.


End file.
